


to keep the world at bay

by sinfulchihuahua0602



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfulchihuahua0602/pseuds/sinfulchihuahua0602
Summary: jaskier helps geralt relax.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 270





	to keep the world at bay

**Author's Note:**

> idk if i got meditation right, but i wanted hurt/comfort jaskier and geralt fic so we're playing fast and loose with canon. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Jaskier is practicing his new song when the door to the room at the inn bangs loudly open and Geralt steps through. Jaskier’s lute is set aside in an instant and he’s standing in front of Geralt, taking in the monster blood spattered on him and the dejected slump of his shoulders. He makes a mental note to pay the alderman a hopefully not-bloody visit tomorrow - and he only hopes it’s not bloody for the alderman’s sake.

For now, though, Jaskier looks up and meets golden eyes that are tired and filled with something like sorrow, and reaches out to catch Geralt as he falls forward, sagging against Jaskier. He buries his face in the crook of his neck and Jaskier doesn’t say anything, knows he shouldn’t because right now Geralt just needs somewhere safe and it’s the highest honor to Jaskier for Geralt to consider him that safe place. 

He feels Geralt’s warm breath fan across his neck as he inhales deeply, hears his heartbeat slow to four beats of Jaskier’s between one of his, instead of two, and stays quiet and still. He wraps his arms around Geralt and briefly considers burning the whole town down for the harsh words they throw at his Witcher. They’re close enough to Blaviken that Jaskier’s near thirty years of songs about the White Wolf don’t work here, but Geralt, being the self-sacrificing idiot he is, decided he’d take the contract anyway, because he’d rather save the lives of the people who hurt him than let them die. 

And now here they are, with an emotional toll taken on Geralt that even Jaskier doesn’t know the depths of yet, and Jaskier can feel the low thrum of the beginnings of anger beneath his skin as he stands there with his Witcher, who’s kinder than those bastards will ever be, taking solace in the fact that Jaskier won’t hurt him. If it was up to him, Jaskier would use his lute and his songs and throw all of their reputations in the gutter. Maybe a few body parts, too, if they’re especially deplorable. 

A few silent moments later, Geralt steps back and Jaskier notices some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he looks up at him. He glances at the bath in the corner of the room and golden eyes follow his gaze; Geralt lets out a quiet sigh and Jaskier wonders what the worst consequences would be if he did burn the whole town down. Geralt usually likes taking baths because he feels cleaner after - a kind of cleaner Jaskier has spent thirty years trying to convince him isn’t right, because whether he takes a bath or not doesn’t mean he’s any less human or any more monster - but the fact that he’s too exhausted to even do that means that there was far more than harsh words thrown at him tonight. 

He forces a small, hopefully reassuring smile on his face. “Hey,” he says quietly, and golden eyes haunted by far too many memories turn to him, “it’s done now.” He reaches up and traces his finger along Geralt’s jaw lightly, watching him lean into the touch. “We can move on in the morning. For now, you need a bath, and then we can sleep.”

Geralt doesn’t say a word and Jaskier doesn’t expect him to, only leans up and presses a soft, slow kiss to his lips. He pulls away and Geralt’s eyes are still closed, shoulders slumping a little more as the tension drops from them, and he gives a small nod before slowly opening his eyes. Jaskier smiles and Geralt allows him to help in taking off his armor. 

Jaskier’s movements are slow, steady, designed to reassure Geralt he isn’t a threat, but he can feel the anger coursing beneath his skin. As much as he cherishes this time spent helping his Witcher relax, he knows he shouldn’t have to. Not to the extent that he does, anyway; he shouldn’t have to spend night after night whispering praises in Geralt’s ears in an attempt to overcome hundreds of years of prejudice and hate, shouldn’t have to project each movement he makes so Geralt doesn’t flinch away from him. His Witcher should feel safe in every town he goes in, he shouldn’t see humans as a threat to his emotional state and something he needs to guard so thoroughly against. 

Geralt sinks into the bathwater with a quiet, contented hum as Jaskier works through the tangles and dried monster blood in his hair with his fingers. He talks about anything and everything, keeping the topic light and his voice steady to fill the silence and give Geralt something to focus on, rather than the self-loathing he knows waits just beyond Jaskier’s influence. Jaskier’s fingers trail across his arm, through his hair, and he catalogues Geralt’s responses with as much meticulous detail as he gives his lute. When Geralt is too tired, or can’t articulate what he wants, touch is a language they both know and which Jaskier uses to discern for himself what his Witcher wants without saying a word. Here, every touch means something, and Jaskier knows exactly what it is. 

So, when Geralt leans slightly up into his hand as it runs through his hair, he makes sure to keep some sort of contact with it constantly, and when his fingers along his arm makes Geralt tense, Jaskier withdraws when he finishes with his hair and allows Geralt to finish bathing himself. 

Jaskier is sitting on the bed, reading a book when Geralt finishes. He looks up as Geralt changes into a loose shirt and pants and walks over to the side of the bed. He looks uncertain; even after a month of willingly submitting to Jaskier, he still finds it hard to initiate it, to start the process of slowly taking his walls down for a few hours. 

But Jaskier would be a shit Dom, and a shittier boyfriend, if he couldn’t sense what Geralt needed, so he reaches up and puts a hand on his shoulder, pressing lightly down. There’s half a second of resistance where Jaskier thinks for a panicked moment that he’s finally made a mistake, that Geralt’s trust in him has been broken, before Geralt slowly follows the pressure down to his knees. 

“Good,” Jaskier says quietly, watching a little of Geralt’s tension fade at the reassurance that he’s doing it right, and waits for Geralt to close his eyes and sink into his meditative state. 

Jaskier watches, and waits, and notices the exact moment Geralt goes completely still. He chooses that moment to bring his hand slowly down to run through Geralt’s hair, taking personal pride in knowing he’s doing it right when Geralt doesn’t so much as twitch. He runs his hand through once more, twice, until he’s built up a steady rhythm. Jaskier smiles when, after twenty minutes of this while he sings and hums some idle tunes and verses, he hears Geralt’s breathing slow to that of deep meditation. All of the lingering tension drains from his Witcher’s shoulders as Jaskier continues. 

Golden eyes snap open seconds before the latch on the door clicks open and the innkeeper peeks in. His eyes widen at the implication of the positions Geralt and Jaskier are in, and Jaskier’s hand stills in Geralt’s hair. 

Jaskier knows this is more than meditation; this is something far more intimate. It’s a side of Geralt that no one ever sees, it’s a massive amount of trust placed in Jaskier’s hands to allow him to be so close, let alone touching him, while he meditates. 

Jaskier doesn’t take this trust lightly, so when he realizes the audacity of this man to enter their room - _without knocking_ \- and see Geralt in such a vulnerable state without his consent, he’d rather like to stick his dagger somewhere unpleasant in the man. 

He’s up out of bed in an instant, with only light, fleeting pressure put on Geralt’s shoulder in a wordless request for him to stay, and blocks the innkeeper’s view of Geralt with his body as he stands in front of him. 

There’s a thin mask of neutrality on Jaskier’s face above the anger as the innkeeper composes himself from his shock and raises an eyebrow. “If you’re going to tame the Butcher, you’ll need more violence than that,” he says, almost disdainfully. Jaskier wonders if his current bloody fantasies are about to become reality as his mind runs through the most painful, non-lethal places to stab someone. 

“Is there a reason you’ve interrupted us? Without knocking, I might add,” he says, putting all of the icy tone of annoyed nobility into his voice. He hides a dark, satisfied grin when the innkeeper pales just slightly at the sheer amount of anger hinted beneath his tone. 

He composes himself a second time, color returning to his cheeks and the smugness coming back. “Mayor wants the Butcher out of town now.”

Jaskier smiles now, too sharp and venomous, and watches the innkeeper pale a little further. He straightens his back, keeping the cold mask of neutrality on his face, and looks every bit the part of nobility as he replies. 

“You can tell the mayor to kindly _fuck off_. Geralt saved the lives of everyone in this town and he deserves a night’s rest here. And,” he adds as the innkeeper opens his mouth, “there won’t be any problems with that or the mayor will find himself out of a job very quickly.”

The innkeeper frowns, apparently not threatened enough by Jaskier’s words and tone, and laughs. “You truly believe the Butcher is anything but a bloodthirsty beast? He’s threatened you, hasn’t he?”

Jaskier sighs and rolls his eyes before he pulls out his dagger and shoves the innkeeper against the wall, pressing the blade to his throat. He takes cruel satisfaction in seeing the innkeeper truly knocked down a peg now, face white as a ghost - or a nightwraith, and Jaskier briefly entertains the image of Geralt running his sword through this scum of a man, before he smiles darkly at the innkeeper, whose breath comes quick beneath his blade and whose eyes are wide in fear. 

“Let me repeat myself,” he says quietly near the man’s ear, dark and dangerous. “Geralt is a better man than you bastards in this shithole town will ever be, and you should be grateful that he saved your lives after what you all have done to him.” 

The innkeeper nods frantically and Jaskier continues. “So, there won’t be a problem with us staying here, correct?”

Another frantic nod. Jaskier releases some of the pressure on the man, only to shove him back just as hard when he tries to leave. Now he puts all of his true anger in his voice, because where they sleep is one thing, but this is far more important and he _will not_ let the innkeeper fuck it up. He knows the knowledge that Geralt submits to Jaskier could be used in all the wrong ways, especially in a town like this. 

“And another thing,” he says, “there will not be any rumors spread about Geralt of Rivia, the _White Wolf_ , based on what you saw tonight, understood?” 

The innkeeper is trembling by now and Jaskier almost feels bad for the man. Almost, because he thinks of the way Geralt went tense beneath his hand when he opened the door and he finds all pity for the man has left him. He gives a too-sweet smile as the innkeeper nods desperately and he lets him go, watching him run down the stairs and away from Jaskier as fast as possible. 

He sheathes his dagger and turns back around, closing the door to their room and locking it behind him. Geralt is still kneeling, which is a victory in itself that he trusted Jaskier enough to take care of it, and didn’t feel the need to make sure the night wouldn’t turn bad on him. Jaskier can still see the renewed tension in Geralt’s shoulders, though, and bites back a sigh. There is no doubt Geralt heard the entire conversation, and all of Jaskier’s work to make him relax and forget the world for a night has been undone. 

“Why don’t we leave?” Geralt asks quietly, golden eyes tracking him as Jaskier walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. 

“Because you need to relax and sleep for one night at least. You can’t keep going like this without expecting some sort of damage, whether emotional or physical,” Jaskier replies, trying to calm his anger at this shithole town for adding on to Geralt’s self-loathing that Jaskier had been trying so desperately to help with. 

“I’m fine. I can start packing up now. We’ll be gone by midnight.”

Jaskier sighs and runs his hand back through Geralt’s hair. “No, you aren’t, and you can’t. You have far too much hate thrown at you already. I want to make sure you feel safe - truly safe - at least every once in a while. Especially in a town like this. We can’t let them beat us, right?”

Geralt’s eyes have drifted closed again and he hums softly in distracted response. Jaskier laughs and pulls his hand away to allow Geralt to sink back into meditation, before resuming his earlier rhythm and idly singing and humming some songs he’s working on. 

It takes an hour for Jaskier to hear Geralt’s breathing slow enough to indicate he’s near sleep, and he tugs lightly at Geralt’s hair with each pass of his hand until he gets an annoyed groan for disturbing him and his golden eyes slowly open. 

“Come on, up here,” Jaskier says. Geralt closes his eyes and gives another annoyed growl, before slowly standing and joining Jaskier on the bed. He lets Jaskier lay on top of him, head against his chest and his Witcher’s slow heartbeat thudding in his ears, and feels Geralt slowly drift to sleep beneath him. 

The last thing Jaskier feels is the warm weight of Geralt’s arm wrapping across his back, and he allows a fleeting smile to curve his lips before sinking into unconsciousness. 


End file.
